


It’s so fucking hot here I’m about to set fire to myself

by ronniesshoes



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Angry Sex, Hair-pulling, M/M, Outdoor Sex, Spanking, Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-02 22:25:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15805758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ronniesshoes/pseuds/ronniesshoes
Summary: I found a prompt generator and got "treehouse" and "hot lazy summer days; steamrooms; sweat-slick skin; tempers rising with the temperature". There are no steamrooms, but there’s plenty of bad tempers + an actual treehouse. No kidding.





	It’s so fucking hot here I’m about to set fire to myself

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted from tumblr

Brian’s not sure how he finds himself in this particular treehouse—or any treehouse, for that matter—but there is no doubt in his mind that it has something to do with Roger Taylor.

His neck and shoulders are stiff and sore from sleeping on the wooden floor, and he tries to rub out the knots as he takes in his surroundings. The treehouse is as small as one would predict something made for kids to be, with rough, uneven floorboards and a half-arsed attempt at a roof which Brian doubts would give much shelter should it start to rain.

There’s a small terrace out in front—terrace being an awfully nice word considering it’s an extension of the floor, and that the treehouse only has tree walls—and Freddie is sitting on it, his legs dangling in free air, apparently unbothered by the whole thing. The cigarette smoke curling upwards from his form makes annoyance flare up in Brian, because Freddie knows that he hates it when he smokes. It’s like he’s deliberately trying to annoy him—and with the way it’s been lately, Brian wouldn’t put it past him.

To say that Freddie is not his favourite person at the moment is an understatement.

He wants to know what is going on, wants to know why he’s outside when it’s hot enough to fry eggs on the asphalt, and not in his wonderfully cool bedroom or by the pool with a glass of lemonade in hand. Still, he’s not going to give Freddie the satisfaction of seeing him confused, and so he crosses his arms and waits. At his movement, Freddie turns around, one eyebrow raised in question. Gazing calmly at Brian, he takes a drag of his smoke and exhales slowly. Brian fights down the urge to kill him.

They stare at each other long enough for birdsong and the rustle of leaves to swim into Brian’s consciousness. Then Freddie tilts his chin slightly, and Brian’s eyes snap in the direction he’s gesturing. He plucks the carelessly discarded note from the wooden floor and scans its contents.

 _See you on Monday_! it reads.

“What’s this supposed to mean?” he says, working hard to keep his tone even. It’s too short to offer any sort of explanation, and the exclamation mark jars him. It’s clear who it’s from—he could recognise those Ys anywhere—but the knowledge does nothing to soothe him.

Freddie shrugs. “I know as much as you do.”

“And that doesn’t bother you?” Brian asks, crossing his arms again. They’re in a forest, for God’s sake. Ordinarily Freddie makes a fuss if they’re outside and he has to sit on the grass.

“You so badly wanting me to be bothered outweighs it by far,” Freddie says, stubbing out his cigarette before dropping in onto the forest floor.

Brian’s positively itching to strangle him. “Fine,” he snarls, forcing himself to turn away from Freddie and busy himself with inspecting their small space. Piled in a corner is what he supposes is their food supply—nuts and biscuits and cans of baked beans, plus four 1.5 l. bottles of water—two sleeping bags, a flashlight and a pen, and a few clean clothes. He goes through it all again, a bit more desperate this time. This cannot be the only things they’ve been given to last three days in a treehouse. The thought of spending a weekend in such close quarters with the one person he would rather be much further away from makes him dizzy.

Freddie’s pulling off his shirt when Brian turns around. His trousers are already in a pile next to him.

“What are you doing?” Brian snaps, concentrating on his anger.

“Might as well work on my tan while you’re moping,” Freddie replies.

Brian grits his teeth. “Don’t worry,” he says, “I’m going.”

The ladder to the treehouse is made of rope and swings wildly when Brian climbs down, but he gets to the ground relatively unscathed. With a last sour look at Freddie and the house, he treads down the overgrown track in the direction he hopes will get him out of there.

The heat is not as suffocating as it was further from the ground, and it offers Brian a bit of relief. The forest is thick with trees, and he really has no idea where he could possibly be. He mopes for what he thinks is about an hour, mindlessly wandering through the forest, hot and irritated. There’s no way he can be alone with Freddie for an entire weekend. He just can’t do it. One thing is having to work with him, which over the last couple of weeks has slowly but steadily become more difficult than he ever would have thought to be possible, another thing entirely is spending 72 hours with him in such close quarters. It’s not like there’s anywhere to go—the forest is big and unfamiliar, and the heat makes it nearly impossible to think.

On the way he gets lost several times and has almost resigned himself to a fate of dying alone in the woods while Freddie is lacquering nails or whatever ridiculous activity he normally keeps himself occupied with, when he spots a tiny red building with a door on either side. Heart beating a little faster, Brian opens the first door to reveal a small public restroom, complete with soap, paper towels, and toilet paper. Brian steps inside and sags with relief. The cold of the tiles stings his bare skin when he leans back against the wall to take in the room, and the thought of avoiding the humiliation of relieving himself in the forest like some kind of animal is a welcome one. Not that his love and respect for animals has wavered in the slightest, but he’s not ready to join them just yet.

Pushing himself away from the wall, he reaches over to turn on the faucet. There’s a worrying gurgle, then the water comes, clear and cold in Brian’s cupped hands. He drinks and drinks until he can’t anymore, then washes his face and dabs some water to the nape of his neck and the inside of his elbows and wrists.

There’s a pressure on his bladder, something he’s repressed all morning despite the forest all around, and he pulls down his trousers and sits down on the toilet seat, more to rest for a bit than because he prefers to sit.

He doesn’t want to leave now that he’s finally found somewhere cool and peaceful, but finds it odd to hang around on public restrooms and reluctantly steps outside again some 15 minutes later. He’s starting to get hungry, and though he’s not exactly itching to get back to Freddie, it might take him a while to locate the treehouse.

As it turns out, he’s not that far from it, and the knowledge cheers Brian a bit. He doesn’t have to tell Freddie about the restrooms, and thinks it’ll help him endure their stay. When Brian swings a leg onto the floor of the treehouse, having battled the ladder for an embarrassingly long time, Freddie is, to his surprise and delight, nowhere to be seen.

He enjoys his alone time for all of 20 minutes, then starts to get terribly bored. One thing is being on his own back home, where he has access to books and equipment and a telephone if everything else fails, but here there’s nothing to do but sleep and eat, which neither stale biscuits or the high temperature make very appealing. He caps and uncaps the pen he found among their food supply until a thought strikes him and he experimentally scratches down a doodle on the uneven floor. To his delight, the ink stays on, and he tries to hum the melody that came to his mind last night.

So absorbed in his writing is he that he’s only vaguely aware of time passing, and only realises a large chunk of it has from the cramps in his hand, his stiff neck, and sore seat when he looks up a long while later. The floor around him, from an arm’s length away to where his trousers touch the floorboards, is covered in lyrics. Some of them has potential, he thinks, and are practically done, others he’s ready to scrap right away if not for the knowledge that he needs as much distraction as possible in the coming days. He crosses them out anyway, not so much that they’re illegible, but to show himself that they’re definitely not good enough.

It’s a bit odd that Freddie’s still not back, he thinks. Not that he cares. It wouldn’t surprise Brian if he had walked a few hundred meters, bumped into a nice family, and got a ride back to London without sparing him a single thought. And he hopes that’s what happened, inconsiderable as it is of Freddie—not because spending a weekend in a treehouse alone is Brian’s idea of fun, but at least he doesn’t have to deal with him then. It would have done him good to spend a night or two in a forest, Brian’s sure, spoiled brat that he is; too caught up in his own wants and needs.

Of course the following weeks would be insufferable—they would never hear the end of all the horrors he had endured, the trees and the animals, and, God help him, the bugs, and with no personal assistant to cook him food or entertain him.

Brian realises he’s losing himself to bitterness again, and forces himself to think about something else. He knows it’s not really Freddie’s fault that he’s spoiled, or that Brian finds him so annoying his thoughts turn murderous more often that is probably healthy, but he thinks Freddie could at least stop flaunting … well, himself, really. Brian doesn’t know what he sees in him. Saw. Yes, he’s got a large personality, but it’s bordering on obnoxious, and his confidence is most certainly fake. And alright, so maybe Brian doesn’t win people over with his looks, but at least he’s never gone for a moustache, or keeps his hair so short it doesn’t curl, and maybe his teeth are not exactly even, but at least he doesn’t have a ridiculous overbite.

Even in his thoughts, Brian knows it’s a low blow, and he feels terribly uncomfortable all of the sudden. It doesn’t even look that ridiculous, especially not when his jaw is relaxed and only his front teeth are showing, or when he’s laughing so hard he forgets to cover anything at all.

Annoyed with himself, Brian gets to his feet and is just about to climb down the ladder when he hesitates. He crosses the floor to pick up and shake out his sleeping bag, then spreads it out so it covers his scribbles and feeling decidedly ridiculous while doing so. Then he goes to find Freddie.

He searches the restrooms first, then follows the path until it splits into two. He doesn’t think Freddie would have walked farther than this had he first found the restrooms, and chides himself for not thinking of it before. His shirt sticks to his back from the short walk, and when he passes the restrooms the second time, he’s tempted to stay there, but the part of his mind that, ridiculously, worries about Freddie is not easy to quieten.

When he reaches the treehouse, he calls for Freddie in case he’s returned, not eager to climb the ladder unnecessarily. There’s no answer, and Brian really fucking hopes for the sake of Freddie that it’s because he’s not there, rather than because he’s bored and thinks it terribly amusing that Brian is combing the entire forest to find him.

Irritated by the thought of it, Brian shakes himself and continues in the opposite direction. He’s thankful for the shade the trees offer, but the air is still too hot and too heavy, and nausea blooms in his chest and throat.

It’s so hot he can barely be in his own body. His skin is slick with sweat, and his thoughts are constantly cut short to be replaced by one other: to get away from the heat.

Turning around seems to be too much of an effort, so he keeps going. If he doesn’t find Freddie now, he’ll have to go look for him later, and just the thought exhausts him. He just wants to find Freddie, get back to the treehouse, and find a way to rip off his own skin.

Wiping his brow with the back of his hand, he looks up. There, sitting in a clearing and wearing a crown made of leaves, is Freddie. Brian stops short.

“Darling!” Freddie beams, “you found me!”

The flash of annoyance Brian feels at the words is almost enough to distract him from the clear exhaustion visible on Freddie’s face despite his ridiculous tone of voice and pleased smile.

Freddie gets to his feet. “You wouldn’t _believe_ —”

Brian can’t stand the sight of him, can’t stand his voice, and he promptly turns on his heel and stomps back towards the treehouse. He never learns what he wouldn’t believe, but he can hear Freddie following at a distance, and somehow even that annoys him.

Now that he’s found him, it seems stupid that he ever worried. He should have stayed instead to enjoy the peace and quiet, let Freddie sort it out himself. Already he’s regretting he went looking for him.

*

An hour later, and Brian has never been so uncomfortable in his whole life. He’s lying on his back on the floor of the treehouse, drops of sweat rolling off him, clothes sticking to his skin. Waves of heat wash over him every time he moves, so he tries not to. A dull ache is blooming at the top of his head despite the fact that he’s drunk steadily all day. There’s a pressure on his bladder again, but he’s too uncomfortable to do anything about it.

Freddie, the bastard, has stripped down to his underwear again and seems to be soaking up the heat. He’s even lying in direct sunlight, and every once in a while he’ll turn over.

It had annoyed Brian in the beginning—still does—but Freddie had only shrugged and told him to look the other way if it bothered him that much. It’s hugely inconsiderable, not to mention entirely inappropriate, on Freddie’s part, but Brian hasn’t said anything for fear of smug comments.

Already he’s not sure how much more he can take.

*

As the day finally draws to a close, cans of baked beans are eaten in tense silence, both men staying as far away from each other as possible. The mere presence of Freddie is grating on Brian’s nerves, and when he’s done eating, he just wants to go to bed. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to fall asleep this early, but creeps into his sleeping bag anyway. It’s hot and uncomfortable no matter how he twists and turns. Beside him, Freddie’s lying still, apparently not bothered.

Hours later, and Brian is no closer to falling asleep. The sky is darkening now, and the temperature is low enough that he thinks falling asleep within the next few hours should be possible. The buzz of insects is loud in his ear. Freddie unzips his sleeping bag.

There’s a sudden light, and Freddie’s sitting on his knees, flashlight in one hand, pack of biscuits in the other.

“What are you doing?” Brian snaps when he realises what Freddie has in mind. “Don’t kill them!”

Freddie lowers the pack of biscuits. “They’re mosquitoes,” he says flatly.

“Don’t kill them,” Brian repeats, “it’s not their fault someone decided we should spend a weekend here.”

Freddie’s sighs loudly, and Brian turns around so he doesn’t have to look at him.

The night is rapidly cooling, and Brian almost wishes for the heat of the day. He has always hated camping—it’s too cold and too humid for it to be comfortable in any way—but at least he’s usually had someone to talk to when he did, someone or something to take his mind off the less pleasant aspects.

“Freddie?” he asks after a long moment.

There’s a rustle from Freddie’s sleeping bag, but he doesn’t answer.

“I’m sorry,” he says, because if there’s one thing he hates more than apologising, it’s people being mad at him.

“Why are you so difficult?” Freddie sighs, “I get that you’re not exactly thrilled to be here, but I don’t remember you being this irritated.”

Brian wants to defend himself, but he can’t really say anything against the claim. He lifts one shoulder in a shrug, then figures it doesn’t have the intended effect when he’s facing away from Freddie. He turns around. “It’s the heat,” he says, “I hate it.”

“I know you do,” Freddie says mildly, “but that can’t be the only reason.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I think you have to.”

Brian rolls onto his back. A few stars are visible through the canopy of leaves. “Let it go, Fred.”

Freddie doesn’t answer.

*

Brian wakes up bathed in sweat. His sleeping bag sticks to his skin, and the hateful orb in the sky has found way into the treehouse and is currently attempting to set fire to the black part in the foot of it. He kicks out of it, and scratches an itch behind his knee.

“Wow,” Freddie says.

Brian follows his line of sight. His right leg is dotted with mosquito bites, and so are his arms. He counts 23 and mourns his skin.

Freddie looks like he badly wants to say something.

“Don’t,” Brian warns, scratching viciously at his collarbone. 24.

“I was only gonna ask you if you wanted to come with me for a little morning toilette and a wash up,” Freddie says lightly.

Brian thinks the fuck not. “I’m quite content to stay, thank you.”

There’s an amused glint in Freddie’s eyes. “Suit yourself. See you in a bit, dear!”

Brian lies down again, thankful for a moment alone. A heartbeat later, there’s a shout from Freddie.

“Which way was it again?”

“Just follow the path,” he shouts back, “to the right.”

Freddie’s absence is a much needed relief, and Brian uses his down time to scratch out a couple of more lines and eat his frankly rather disgusting breakfast.

When Freddie returns, Brian promptly abandons his seat and climbs down the ladder. For how early it is, he has already seen too much of him today.

He wanders around for a long as he can stand it, then seeks shelter from the sun in the restrooms. He strips down to his underwear, collects a handful of paper towels, and begins a thorough wash. The soap is a small luxury, and so is the cold water, and Brian doesn’t ever want to take things like these for granted again.

When he’s stretched out his morning routine as long as possible and is beginning to get bored, he dresses and heads back to the treehouse. He’s not looking forward to seeing Freddie again, not at all, but there’s only so long one can spend alone in a forest without going mad.

As he nears the treehouse, it becomes clear that Brian is not the only one who’s resorted to music as a cure for boredom. Between goofing around with what during concerts would have been impromptu call-and-responses, he’s singing something Brian hasn’t heard before. He thinks it’s the melody that’s new, because something about it seems vaguely familiar, and—

“Freddie,” he yells, speeding up to reach and climb the impossible, hateful ladder. For an annoyingly long time, he struggles to climb it, and by the time he hauls himself onto the platform, he is absolutely livid.

“Oh, hello, dear,” Freddie says. He’s wearing the leaf crown from yesterday and looking annoyingly carefree.

“What are you doing?” Brian snarls, “those are private!”

“If you wanted to keep them private, I suggest not writing them all over the floor.”

Brian glares at him. Freddie knows how much he hates to show his unfinished lyrics, he fucking knows.

He channels his inner John and says “if you ever touch any of my unfinished music again I’ll hang you by the balls for the world to see.”

He’s not entirely sure John would be proud of him, but at least Freddie keeps quiet then.

The rest of the day he spends seething in silence, doing his best to ignore Freddie and not give in to temptation and push him off the edge. When night comes, Brian kills every mosquito in sight with fervour. Freddie, thankfully, doesn’t comment on it.

*

Sunday turns out to be the worst day yet. There is a distinct closeness in the air, and the sun has sought shelter from the dark clouds rolling over the sky. The weather demands stillness and quiet, and Freddie doesn’t attempt to talk to him all day. Brian stays in the treehouse, feeling lethargic and defeated. It feels like they’re waiting for something, but he’s not sure what it is. The day stretches on.

Brian clenches and unclenches his jawline, trying to match the bassline from their new collaboration with Bowie that’s been stuck in his head for the past hour. He’s thinking about Freddie and how he hasn’t said a word all day, slowly but steadily working himself into a state of annoyance again. Freddie is lying flat on his back and chain smoking, looking bored but otherwise untroubled, and Brian finds he prefers him trying to start and uphold conversation, because at least then he knew Freddie found the whole thing frustrating, too. The smoke’s not helping, curling upwards from the tip of the cigarette sitting between Freddie’s slim fingers, the scent of it strong enough to further his annoyance.

He spends close to a minute trying to make it burst into flames with his stare alone. Eventually, Freddie acknowledges him with a cock of his head.

“Must you smoke?”

Freddie doesn’t answer, but takes a long drag instead. Brian wonders, madly, if the others will question it if Freddie has mysteriously disappeared when they come back to get them.

He lets out a loud, annoyed sigh, and gets to his feet to rummage through their food supply. Even with the heat, he misses tea, and it’s entirely unfair that Freddie has been supplied with more than enough cigarettes to last him a weekend while Brian not only has to suffer from it, but that his comfort clearly hasn’t been taken into account. A few sleeping pills might have been nice. And some painkillers, while they’re at it. Or maybe not having been left in a fucking treehouse in the middle of a strange forest in the first place, but clearly, that’s too much to ask for.

He has just decided that he’s not that hungry anyway when he catches sight of something square and shiny poking out from under a pile of Freddie’s clothes. Curious, he throws them to the side, and finds three condoms and a bottle of lube.

“What is this?” he asks, voice even despite the fury blooming hot and wild in his stomach. “Tell me this is a joke.”

Freddie sits up and shrugs. His cigarette has been extinguished and, Brian assumes, thrown over the edge of the platform to litter the forest floor along with the others. “Probably.”

“How long have you had these?”

“I didn’t bring them, but I hid them because I knew you’d get your knickers in a twist if you saw them,” Freddie says. “Trust me, moody fuckers like you are not on top of my to do list.”

No, Freddie established that quite a while ago. “Piss off,” he says, attempting to get to his feet to get out of there.

Freddie catches his arm before he can get up, and a shock goes through his body at the touch.

“Let go of me,” he snarls, angry with himself for responding to Freddie’s touch.

Freddie only tightens his grip. “I’ve been more than patient with you and your moods,” he says, “you’re so pissy all the time.”

“Let _go_!” He yanks his hand out of Freddie’s grip with so much force he falls over.

Freddie lets out a snort of laughter, and Brian is on him in a second, knocking him over and pinning him to the floor by his wrists.

Freddie glares up at him. “Of course.”

“Of course _what_?” Brian says, forcefully pushing Freddie’s wrists into the floorboards.

“Fuck!” Freddie struggles to kick him off. “You bastard! Are you trying to break my wrists?”

Brian swallows down a gasps when Freddie accidentally grinds against him in his struggle to get free, and lets go of him like he’s been burned. Freddie’s eyes snap to his groin, and Brian pushes away from him, hot and humiliated.

He’s not prepared for the yank at the back of his shirt, nor Freddie’s hiss of “you’re such a coward, Brian.”

Brian gasps in surprise and whirls around. “What?”

Freddie’s eyes are dark and dangerous like Brian has rarely seen them. “You can never say exactly what you mean,” he says. The tension between them is thick enough to cut through, and Brian finds he has trouble breathing properly. “Never admit to what you want.”

Brian barks out a laugh. It sounds jarring even to his own ears. “Don’t flatter yourself. I don’t want _you_.”

“Liar,” Freddie whispers, his breath hot on Brian’s face. There’s a challenge in his eyes, a smugness around his mouth. Brian wants to wipe that look off his face, wants to take him and teach him a lesson right then and there.

With a force that surprises them both, he crushes their mouth together. His lips knock against Freddie’s teeth, but he’s so livid he barely registers the pain. Freddie tears at his clothes, scratches at his skin with blunt nails, and Brian blindly reaches for his crotch. He doesn’t want to waste a single second more and yanks down Freddie’s trousers and pants in one go. His fingers close around the heated flesh, pulls roughly at his cock until Freddie pushes him away.

“No,” he says, reaching back to grab a condom and the bottle of lube. Brian narrowly catches them. “You can’t handle it.”

The remark has angry spots dancing in front of Brian’s eyes. He clenches his jaw and accidentally tears the condom, earning himself an annoyed tut from Freddie. “We don’t even need this,” he says, throwing the ruined condom away.

Freddie’s nostrils flare. “You’re such an idiot,” he says, ripping open another. With quick, practised hands, he pulls Brian’s boxers down and puts in on. Despite the jump of his cock when Freddie lubes him up, Brian keeps his lips pressed together, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s giving him any kind of pleasure.

Freddie doesn’t waste time preparing himself, and Brian’s doesn’t care for it anyway. He positions himself behind Freddie where he’s dropped down on all four. Freddie is looking over his shoulder with a challenging stare that Brian returns evenly as he pushes past the tight ring of muscles, fingers digging into his already sweat-slick sides.

Brian lets out a groan at the slick heat around him, and Freddie chokes on his breath. It’s nowhere near good enough, and Brian draws back to slam in again, wanting to hear him moan, hear him _beg_.

Freddie pushes back, and they’re quick to find a rhythm. Brian notices the strain in Freddie’s shoulders, remembers the lube on his hands and figures he must be struggling to stay on all four every time Brian pushes in. Deciding to help him, Brian yanks his hips up and towards himself so Freddie is thrown off balance. A forceful thrust has his hands skidding and lands him on his elbows with his arse in the air.

“You sick fucker,” Freddie hisses, “I could have bit off my tongue.”

“Clearly you’re fine,” Brian says between clenched teeth, fighting not to lose himself in the tightness and the heat, “because you’re still talking.”

His hands keep slipping on Freddie’s hips, and Brian digs his fingers in hard enough to bruise. The slap of skin against skin is loud in the still evening.

“God, yes, right there,” Freddie gasps. Brian doesn’t think he means to.

 _You can’t handle it_ echoes suddenly in his mind, and with a hot burst of renewed anger, he pulls back, roughly tilts Freddie’s hips so the angle is off, and pushes back in.

“Fuck,” Freddie says, “you’re such a bastard!”

Brian scratches his nails over the thin skin stretched over Freddie’s hips, and Freddie hisses in pain. It’s an exhilarating feeling, getting to use him like this, to pour all of his anger and frustrations into it. With the slick heat around him and the rough wooden floor scraping his knees, Brian’s orgasm is quickly building. The hot weather adds to the sensation, slicks up their skin and makes Brian desperate for release.

“Is this really all you can give?” Freddie taunts, pushing back against Brian’s thrusts.

The slap of a flat palm against naked skin shocks them both. Brian’s hand stings, and it’s the only thing he’s aware off as he pulls out and sits back on his knees, horrified with himself.

Freddie turns around, eyes dark and colour high on his cheeks. Perspiration beads off his brow. “What are you doing?” he demands, pushing onto his lap.

Brian leans into the comfort of annoyance, and tries to push him off.

“It’s so typical of you, Brian,” Freddie says, mean and low. He grabs a fistful of Brian’s hair and yanks his head back. “Always backing out at the last minute.”

Without meaning to, Brian lets out a whimper. He can’t help it—having his hair pulled always does it for him. Another pull, and Brian moans as Freddie lifts his hips and sinks down onto his cock.

Freddie crushes their mouths together, and Brian’s lip suffers a sharp sting when their teeth knock together. He closes his eyes, not wanting to look at Freddie—he hates the things Freddie makes him feel, the things he makes him do.

Freddie’s hips come down hard and fast, and as the nails on his free hand bite into Brian’s bicep, he forces his head to the side and hisses, “do it again.”

“No,” Brian bites out. He’s quickly losing himself, and this time, there’s no going back.

Freddie lets go of his hair but keeps moving. He scoffs, “I knew you couldn’t handle it.”

“Shut _up_!” He hits Freddie hard on one buttock when he lifts his hips again.

Freddie swears and throws his head back, hand tightening around Brian’s arm. His cock is rubbing against Brian’s chest and stomach, sliding easily in a mix of sweat and the pre-cum leaking from the tip of it. Brian slaps him again, orgasm rushing towards him.

His feet are starting to hurt with all the weight being put on them, but then the sweet rush of orgasm comes, and he’s moaning, deep and long, Freddie’s hips milking him to the last drop.

Then Freddie’s cock pulses, and he comes all over Brian with a sound so filthy he would’ve blushed had he not currently been buried deep inside of him.

When it’s all over, Brian pushes Freddie off him, rummages through the pile of clothes to find his boxers, and does a quick wash with handfuls of water from the last bottle before pulling them on. He can’t bring himself to look at Freddie and creeps into his sleeping bag instead. He feels exhausted, and used, but his anger has seeped out of him, leaving a strange kind of emptiness. He worries he might never fall asleep, but is out like a light before he even hears Freddie move.

*

When he wakes again, it’s pitch dark. There’s an odd noise sounding, like thousands of small stones hitting the roof. It’s colder now, but there’s a certain freshness in the air, and—

Brian sits up, suddenly wide awake. “It’s raining!” He shakes Freddie’s sleeping form. “Freddie, wake up!”

He doesn’t waste time to hear if Freddie replies, but scrambles out of his sleeping bag to get outside. Fat, icy drops of rain hit him, and soon he’s soaked to the bone. He throws his head back and laughs, giddy with relief.

“You’re mad,” Freddie says. It’s too dark to see his expression, but he’s sitting up now, and there’s a note of warmth in his voice.

“Come out here,” Brian pleads.

“You’re not serious,” Freddie says, “we’ll both get sick.”

Brian rushes inside again, reluctant to miss out on the rain for even a second. He kneels down in front of Freddie, tugs at his hand. “Please?”

Freddie is silent for a long moment, then he squeezes Brian’s hand and gets to his feet to follow him outside.

The flash of his teeth is visible when Freddie smiles, tilts back his head to feel the drops of rain on his face. Brian stares at him, overwhelmed by a surge of affection for this man.

He swallows down the lump forming in his throat. “I’m sorry I’ve been such a shit,” he says. “I’ve treated you awfully.” 

Freddie looks at him for a long time, the rain soaking his clothes and curling his hair. He looks small and sad even in the greying night, and Brian’s heart clenches painfully. Apologies sit useless in his throat, and his world narrows down to Freddie and the mad beat of his heart.

A long, hesitant moment passes, then Freddie slowly reaches out his hand and links their little fingers together.

It feels like forgiveness.


End file.
